Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [41]
“Well, there are a lot of men in the kingdom,” Ysolla said, in an obvious attempt to be helpful. “I’ll wager you won’t have any trouble getting another one. I’ll wager he’ll be better than Galrion, too. He must have done something awful to get himself exiled.”
“At court a man has to do very little to get himself out of favor,” Rodda said. “There are plenty of others to do it for him. Now, here, lamb, I won’t have Galrion spoken ill of in my hall. He may have failed, but truly, Gwennie, he tried to spare you this. He let me know that he saw trouble coming, and he was hoping he’d have time to release you from the betrothal before the blow fell.” She shook her head sadly. “The King is a very stubborn man.”
“I can’t believe that,” Brangwen snapped. “He never would have cast me off to my shame. I know he loves me. I don’t care what you say.”
“Of course he loved you, child,” Rodda said patiently. “That’s what I’ve just been saying. He wanted to release you in such a way as to spare you the slightest hint of shame. When he failed, he planned to take you with him.”
“If it weren’t for Gerro,” Brangwen said.
Rodda and Ysolla glanced at each other, their eyes meeting in silent conference. This argument had come full circle again, in its tediously predictable way. Brangwen looked out the window at the apple trees and wondered why everything in life seemed tedious.
Brangwen and Gerraent were visiting at the Boar’s dun for a few days, and Brangwen knew that Gerraent had arranged the visit for her sake. That night at dinner, she watched her brother as he sat across the table and shared a trencher with Ysolla. He still has his betrothed, Brangwen thought bitterly. It would have been a wonderful release to hate him, but she knew that he had done only what he thought best for her, whether it truly was best or not. Her beloved brother. While their parents and uncles always doted on Gerraent, the precious son and heir, they had mostly ignored Brangwen, the unnecessary daughter. Gerraent himself, however, had loved her, played with her, helped care for her and led her round with him in a way that was surprising for a lad. She remembered him explaining how to straighten an arrow or build a toy dun with stones, and he was always dragging her out of danger—away from a fierce dog, away from the river’s edge, and now, away from a man he considered unworthy of her.
All through the meal, Gerraent would sometimes look up, catch her looking at him, and give her a timid smile. Eventually Brangwen could no longer bear the crowded hall and made her escape into the cool twilight of Rodda’s garden. Red as drops of blood, the roses bloomed thickly. She picked one, cradled it in her hand, and remembered Galrion telling her that she was his one true rose.
“My lady? Are you distressed about somewhat?”
It was Blaen, hurrying across the garden. Brangwen knew perfectly well that he was in love with her. Every soft look, every longing smile that he gave her stabbed her like a knife.
“How can I not be distressed, my lord?”
“Well, true spoken. But every dark time comes to an end.”
“My lord, I doubt if the dark will ever end for me.”
“Oh, here, things are never as bad as all that.”
As shy as a young lad, Blaen smiled at her. Brangwen wondered why she was even bothering to fight. Sooner or later, Gerraent would hand her over to his blood-sworn friend whether she wanted to marry him or not.
“My lord is very kind. I hardly know what I say these days.”
Blaen picked another rose and held it out. Rather than be rude, Brangwen took it.
“Let me be blunt, my lady,” Blaen said. “You must know that my heart aches to marry you, but I understand what you say about your dark time. Will you think of me this time next year, when these roses are blooming again? That’s all I ask of you.”
“I will, then, if we both live.”
Blaen looked up sharply, caught by her words, even though it was only an empty phrase, a pious acknowledgment that the gods are stronger than men. As Brangwen groped for something to